


Like a Lighthouse

by MoanDiary



Series: Moan Your Way Through Fuckruary [4]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Grinding, Post-Season/Series 04, Premature Ejaculation, Prompt: Grinding, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: In all the many ways he imagined their reunion, he never once dared to hope for something as propitious as an armful of nude and slightly damp detective, smelling intensely of her familiar floral conditioner and tasting of toothpaste, kissing him like she’s trying to perform an ad hoc oral tonsillectomy.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Moan Your Way Through Fuckruary [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626784
Comments: 31
Kudos: 394





	Like a Lighthouse

“Hello, Detective.”

Chloe blinks at him in shock from the opposite side of the threshold of the door to her apartment, dressed in her bathrobe, toothbrush sticking out of one corner of her mouth, hair still damp from a shower. In the golden light of a Los Angeles morning she’s a vision. Lucifer drinks her in like a man dying of thirst, and gives her his most brilliant grin, victorious. 

She blinks again, then grabs him by both lapels and drags him inside. She deposits him against the wall, closes and locks the door, and strides purposefully off into the apartment. She trots up the stairs and he stands awkwardly in the entryway for a few moments before meandering into the kitchen. The apartment is unusually silent, and he’s unusually unaccosted, so he assumes the spawn is with Daniel. 

He’s just begun to root through her cupboard for something to eat by the time she comes back downstairs. To be honest, he doesn’t think he’s eaten any proper food at all since before he said goodbye to her. Has it been weeks? Months? Centuries? Hard to say. Her cellphone is clutched in her hand, and she’s tapping away at it.

He watches her curiously. There’s the distant, tinny sound of ringing on the other end, and she raises the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Lieutenant. This is Decker. I’m not going to be able to make it in today. Really awful stomach bug. Hopefully it’ll pass within a couple of days. Yep. Okay, thanks. Bye.”

She taps the screen one more time with finality then turns it off and tosses it heedlessly onto the counter.

With a few efficient movements and a rustle of fabric, her robe is on the floor, and he only has a brief moment to stare at it, baffled, and wonder what exactly is happening before she’s on him.

In all the many ways he imagined their reunion, he never once dared to hope for something as propitious as an armful of nude and slightly damp detective, smelling intensely of her familiar floral conditioner and tasting of toothpaste, kissing him like she’s trying to perform an ad hoc oral tonsillectomy.

“Mmph,” he says.

She breaks away to take a quick gasp of air, but it’s enough for him to be able to lean back, baffled, and look down at where her breasts, the object of years of late-night (and morning, and midday) fantasies, are pressed up against the fine material of his shirt. His ability to process what’s happening seems to have narrowed down to just one thing at a time. He’s almost too distracted by her breasts to notice the expression on her face—a smile that’s somehow both tender and mischievous, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight streaming through her windows. His heart performs some kind of complicated aerial maneuver in his chest.

She slides her hands under his jacket and around his back and drags them down slowly to squeeze his ass. He yelps, hips jerking forward to press his burgeoning erection against her. She laughs, a throaty cackle that is entirely unsexy by any objective measure, but it so very _her_ that it strikes right to the heart of him. He startles himself with a shocked chuckle in response. She swallows it in another kiss, walking him backwards until he falls onto the couch. 

She lands in his lap, wrapped around him, and drags her mouth away from his long enough to bring it to his ear and whisper, “I missed you,” the words thick with a longing he knows as well as he knows his own name.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, Detective.”

His hands fidget nervously on the couch beside them, and she takes them in her own gently, sliding them up her smooth thighs, then her ass, then up her ribcage, and finally to her breasts, where she releases them. He cups them carefully, their weight in his hands a reassurance that this is real, this is happening. It’s not another all-too-fleeting, frustrating dream. He flicks both thumbs experimentally against her nipples, and her head falls back with a throaty groan. He shifts restlessly beneath her, trousers tight and uncomfortable.

Seemingly in response, she scoots forward a bit more, bringing her hips to rest on his. Her cunt is pressed tightly against his clothed erection, and, Dad help him, he can _smell_ her.

Her hips start a slow back and forth rocking as he begins to massage her breasts. Pressing down hard onto him, then retreating, a truly sinful rhythm. She moves to an inner music that he knows well, the pulsing melody of carnal pleasure. The place where her heat rubs against his straining cock is so wet he can feel it on the other side of his trousers. He sucks in a trembling breath—hands moving restlessly from her breasts down her waist, to the strong, flexing muscles of her thighs—trying to calm himself. But it’s been so long and hell, if she isn’t the most gorgeous—and somehow it’s so _different_ —and she’s biting her full bottom lip and—and it’s been _so_ _long—_

A guttural cry forces its way out of his throat, and he curls forward onto himself abruptly, forehead pressing into the detective’s shoulder, hands gripping her firmly in place as a wave of intense, shuddering pleasure surges through him. He loses his tenuous hold on his straining wings, and they burst outwards, arching and flexing.

He loses himself for a little while, too, distantly aware of Chloe running one hand through his hair and rubbing the other in comforting circles on the nape of his neck.

“Ah, um,” he pants when he finally opens his eyes, pulling back and looking down at himself, mortified. His eyes dart up to her face, where her mouth is struggling to avoid an expression, pulling relentlessly upwards at the corners. “Detective, I swear to you, this has never happened before. I—please give me another chance to—”

She stops him with a finger to his lips, twisting expression finally settling into a pleased grin. “It’s fine. It’s flattering, actually.” Her eyes go to his wings, a little apprehensively. “Is it okay if I…?” Her hand hovers just above the short feathers on the arch of one wing.

“Of...course...” he replies, confused by her apparent lack of concern.

She strokes the glossy, shimmering feathers lightly—reverently, almost—touch ghosting along them. Her fingers trace the vane of one of the longer primaries within her reach, so gently he can barely feel it. She checks his face to gauge his reaction, then sinks her hand into the softer feathers near his ribcage, stroking downwards and letting them slide between her fingers, just barely grazing his flesh beneath. They tremble involuntarily at the sensation, feathers fluffing up as goosebumps rise all over his body. Her expression is awed, wondering. 

No one— _no one_ —has ever touched him like this. His tender, bruised heart thumps painfully against his ribcage. He puts a gentle hand on her cheek and directs her face back to his, willing his lips to communicate all the things he doesn’t know how to.

Her hands make their way to both arches of his wings as they kiss, groping him more firmly, feeling along the muscles and bones within reach in a few different positions, like she’s testing them. He breaks away, cocking his eyebrows at her quizzically. “What on earth are you doing, my dear?”

“Oh, you know,” she replies, settling on a grip and grinning. “Trying to get a sense of how well these serve as love handles.”

He laughs, puzzled, and she must find something in his expression amusing, because she dissolves into uncontrollable giggles that he finds _unbearably_ charming, burying her face in his neck until she recovers.

They grin at each other when she finally catches her breath. “You know,” she says, conversational. “I happen to have the day off work. Do you wanna go upstairs?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
